


Heartstrings

by MrsJohnReese



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27361135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: Peyton Delaney was not a coward. Not really, even if some of her more recent choices indicated otherwise. She came back to Charming-to SAMCRO-for a reason, though she only half-understood it at the time. And no matter how she may have hated herself for needing such a thing, she could not deny that as much as she lost as a result of that decision, she also had so much more to gain
Relationships: Juice Ortiz/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Running

(Hollywood, CA 2007)

It was happening again, in spite of my foolish desire to excuse it. No matter how many times my would-be boyfriend had sworn against it, once again, the promise had been broken. Hell, if I was honest with myself, maybe it never stood a chance of being kept in the first place. It wasn't as though I had any doubts over what Tim was like, having seen him in action enough at the bar where I used to work to know that he had a temper. And yet, even with that awareness sticking out vividly in my mind, I find that I still want to justify this occurrence. To explain why I am locked in the bathroom of my own apartment, now, my palms resting against the surface of the sink while water circles down the drain, soaking the fabric of the washcloth I have been using to dab at my brow, cheek, and lower lip, and coming away tinted pink. Every instinct I possess is all but screaming at me to take this as my final reason to get the hell out of dodge. Demanding that I act in my own self-interest, for once, and the consequences be damned. But even with those thoughts, I find that I am still brought up short by even the slightest consideration of such a course of action, my eyes drifting to the mirror above the sink while another bolt of nausea spirals toward my stomach in response to what I see.

Just looking at my own reflection has me absolutely terrified to venture back to the bedroom, regardless of the knowledge that Tim is now, by all accounts, likely passed out cold until the morning.

A wince passes across my features as I lift one hand to brush my fingertips against the cut that lingers upon my now swelling lip, whatever air I have left in my lungs hissing out between my teeth as just one simple touch sets the skin to throbbing as though the hands that brought the wound into being in the first place are still on my body. Forcing my eyes closed, I do what I can to swallow the bile that has risen to burn at the back of my throat in response to the pain—to all of it, really—my heart hammering against my ribcage as though it seeks to match the steady pulse of the cuts against my skin. And I know I do not have much time. That I can't go on like this for much longer without being forced to act, if for no other reason than to survive.

Why, then, is it so damned hard for me to look at my face in the mirror, and then turn tail and walk right out the door and leave for good?

I know the answer to that question, of course. I know it, even if I do not have the courage to face it head-on. Though my desired line of work is far different from hers, I know without a doubt that I have inherited my mother's zeal for performance. For the appreciation of an audience that just wants—more. And in spite of my own better judgment, it appears that I am willing to accept whatever I have to in order to achieve my own little version of that dream time and time again, even if it costs me a few bumps and bruises along the way.

As it always does every time I force myself to truly look at my actions and decisions, instead of allowing myself to gloss over their existence entirely, regret overwhelms me almost as much as the guilt that inevitably follows it, my lips pursing into a frown for a moment before I realize that the gesture only pulls at the edges of the cut that still refuses to stop throbbing in time with every thump of my heart. I wish that I was stronger. That I had enough grit to make it on my own, without feeling as though I need someone else around to hold my head above water. But the fact of the matter was, I wouldn't have made it half as far as I have attempting to break into the world of music-making without Tim's help along the way, and in spite of how I genuinely do wish I could walk away, I am too hooked on the progress I have made to stop now.

If that makes me an idiot, then I suppose I will just have to accept that as best I can.

Oddly enough that simple thought is enough to steel my nerves, at least temporarily, in spite of the pain that still pulses on the skin of my face, my fingers clutching at the washcloth in the sink so that I can squeeze some of the water out of the fabric before bringing it up to dab against my scrapes and cuts once more. As it always does, the mantra that I keep reciting to myself pops into my head without the slightest provocation, the words providing a soothing counter-rhythm to the washcloth dabbing against my skin, even if that relief is only temporary.

Just a few more gigs—a few more, and then you'll make it big, and you can leave this asshole behind…

If only I had known what attempting to leave Tim behind would incite.

….

(Charming, CA 2008)

"There she is," A familiar, gruff voice states, breaking into my apparent daze, and causing me to jump a bit in surprise as a pair of strong arms wind themselves around my waist, and I force myself to relax as I realize the sensation is not even remotely close to a threat, "Charming's favorite pain in the ass, back from the big city."

"Asshole."

"Takes one to know one, darlin'," Jax retorts, his laughter reverberating through me as he lifts me just enough to spin us both in a small circle before allowing my feet to regain their purchase on the ground, "What the hell are you staring at? One of these other tourists got your eye?"

"Hell no," I deny, stepping away from Jax, and stooping to pick up my bag from where it rests on the concrete beneath the bench I had been occupying while waiting for his arrival. In truth, the reason behind my sudden distraction with the past seems to be every bit as much of a mystery to me as it is to him, though I am not about to admit to that fact out loud. And although I know, at least on some level, that some form of caution may be prudent, at least as far as regulating my own reactions towards returning to the town I grew up in are concerned, I am not entirely prepared to do so, my lips curling up in a smile as I opt for ignoring prudence, and go for outright enthusiasm, instead.

In spite of everything I have gone through, I am home, now, and that has to count for something, right?

Determined to persist in that particular line of thought, no matter how many times my mind may attempt to backslide, I settle instead upon the reality of the fact that Jax is here, in the flesh, to bring me home as promised, my eyes drinking in every last bit of his features as though he is the only thing to keep me sane. Of course, I have no intention of telling him every last detail of what drove me back home in the first place, at least not until I have no other choice but to come clean. But no matter whether I will be successful in keeping everything to myself until a time of my choosing, there is something remarkably comforting about being in Jax's presence once again, my body seeming to relax of its own accord while I fold my arms over my chest and address him again.

"So—where are we headed, first?"

"That depends—that bag able to fit on your back?"

"If I get creative."

"Then I think we can go wherever the hell you want."

Laughing at how easily the banter springs up between us as though almost no time at all has passed between today, and the last time we saw each other, I find myself following in Jax's footsteps easily enough as he turns to head toward his bike just a few short yards away. Once again, I fall prey to the very same stab of guilt that plagued me off and on during the entirety of my trip back to Charming, my reasons for staying away seeming nothing short of shallow, now, in light of the fact that a mere five minutes in Jax's presence have me feeling more secure than I have in months.

Leave it to the one person who has always been like the brother I never had to give me that when no one else could…

Aware that I am doing it again—falling into the trap of my own thoughts so effectively that I appear to have stopped walking—I shake my head in hopes that it will clear the fog muddying my mind, and jog the last few steps that separate me from Jax and his bike, knowing that he has caught onto my apparent distraction whether I wanted him to or not. For a moment, I am almost afraid that he will call me on it. That he will refuse to go anywhere until he gets full disclosure. But, whether he wishes to be merciful, or simply believes such a conversation to be better suited for another time, he chooses to remain silent, instead, an unreadable expression taking over his features while he hands his helmet my way and gives me a moment to secure it as best I can.

Although I might have escaped the inquisition for now, I have absolutely no doubt that even if Jax doesn't manage to question me on his own, later, I will eventually have to face Gemma, as well.

Lord knows I could never keep a secret for long, around her…

…


	2. Charming Reception

"Your mom know you're back yet?" Jax asks me, raising his voice so that I stand a chance of hearing him over the roar of his bike idling at a stop light part of the way through town. Once again, I feel his helmet slipping down my forehead, scrunching my hair and causing it to fall into my eyes so that I am forced to remove one hand from around his waist to push it back. And although I know that his question is purely innocent, I cannot help but fall prey to the slight downturn it makes upon my mood, my lips trembling for a moment before I summon the wherewithal to reply.

"Nope. I didn't—I didn't even know I was coming until I was already here."

"You sure on that?"

"Absolutely positive."

"Then why the hell don't I believe you?"

"Because you're a pain in the ass," I quip, resettling my arms around Jax's waist, and giving him a small squeeze so that he knows I am joking, if by some miracle he hasn't picked up on that already, "Always have been, always will be."

"You love me and you know it."

"Do I, though?"

"You'd damn well better," Jax insists, veering into the neighboring lane, and ignoring the honk of protest that the sedan we have just pulled in front of gives in response, "Your dad?"

"If my mom doesn't know, why the hell would I have told my dad, Jax?"

"Just curious, that's all, Pey. Thought you might want to see him."

"I do," I admit, frowning in spite of myself, and finding that I am abundantly grateful Jax cannot see it while I sit behind him on his bike, "Just figured I'd get settled in, first."

"Where you staying?"

"That is a very good question."

"Jesus Christ, Pey, you know advanced planning is actually a thing," Jax teases, laughing right along with me, even in spite of how I remove one hand from its place around his waist to swat at his shoulder in retaliation, "Talk to my mom. I'm sure she'll let you stay with her and Clay."

"I don't want to impose."

"You want to stay on your own while your mom spends all her time in a porn studio?"

"Fair point," I concede, emitting another faint laugh and shaking my head as I consider my options, "Though the idea of having a place to myself isn't all that bad."

"Don't even think about it, Peyton. You know Gemma isn't going to let you exile yourself."

"She doesn't even know I'm back yet."

"She will as soon as you walk into the office at TM."

"That's where you're taking me?" I exclaim, an exasperated sigh escaping as I feel the slight vibration through my hold on Jax's waist that indicates he is laughing at my belated discovery, and subsequent reaction to it as well, "So much for keeping a low profile."

"You didn't really think that was going to work, did you?"

"No."

"Good."

"So this was your plan all along, then? Blow my request for avoiding pomp and circumstance to hell, and do what you want?"

"Those are some big words, Pey. Didn't know you got yourself a dictionary while you were away," Jax quips, chuckling again as his remark earns him another swat on the back, and tilting his head around just a bit so I can see the open grin on his face that indicates he has absolutely no remorse, "You know if the guys get wind that you're back they'll hunt you down if you don't show your face."

"So basically, you're scared they'll give you shit if they find out you knew before they did, and did nothing about it."

"I'm not scared of those assholes—"

"No? I would be," I tease, trying to hide the reluctance in my tone with a smile as I realize we are already turning the corner and approaching Teller-Morrow Automotive, "I mean, I can only imagine what they're capable of. You've seen it first-hand."

"And you've seen what Gemma is capable of doing first-hand. These guys might be crazy, but they're not that crazy."

"Fair point."

Lapsing into silence as Jax pulls into the lot, and steers his bike over to where the rest of the guys have parked their own, my hands almost immediately lifting to free myself from my helmet so that I can run my fingers through wind-tousled hair. I would have been a liar to pretend that I was not nervous, particularly in light of the fact that I haven't seen most of these men in years. But something about the warmth and reassurance in Jax's hand as he takes the helmet from me once I have removed myself from my seat on the back of his bike stalls that apprehension, and gives me the courage required to turn towards the garage itself while he moves to stand at my side.

"Home sweet home?"

"Shut up," I retort, nudging his side with my elbow, and falling into step beside him as he starts walking towards the garage, "You're going to milk this for all it's worth, aren't you?"

"You know it," Jax confirms, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and bumping his arm against my own before beginning to head towards the garage. For a moment, it's like we are teenagers again, skipping school to come have lunch with the guys. But of course, back then, neither of us had the cares we carry now—

Jax was not about to become a father, and I was not running from a man I never should have trusted to begin with.

Shaking myself before I can become too distracted by those thoughts, I find that I am glancing towards the door of the garage just as Jax does the same, the look he sends me provoking an eye-roll before I find that in my momentary lapse of attentiveness, I am being swept into a nearly rib-cracking embrace by one of the men who has just exited the garage.

"Thought I recognized that head o' hair!"

"Hey, Chibby—"

"Good to see ye still haven't tamed it," The Scotsman teases, setting me back on my own two feet and holding me back at arm's length to look me over as though I'll show some sign of deficiency since I have been away so long, "Christ, ye've grown."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Jus' makes a man feel old, is all."

"Well you're only, what—eighty-five?" I quip, shrieking as Chibs retaliates by tugging me back towards him and pins my arms behind my back, "Hey! It was a joke!"

"Doesn't matter. Get 'er, Jackie boy."

Well shit…

Instinct kicks in as I watch Jax move a bit closer to me, while Chibs holds me in place, my teeth biting into my lower lip because I know exactly what is coming. Somehow, the memory brings the sting of tears to my eyes—Chibs holding a ten year-old me steady while Jax or one of the other guys proceeds to tickle me, mercilessly—and although nearly everything about my life has changed since that time, all those years ago, I find myself rather more than a little willing to act as though absolutely everything remains the same, my weight shifting just a bit against Chibs' hold on my smaller frame so that I can kick my feet out and force Jax to dodge out of the way of what would've been a kick to the groin.

"Low blow, Pey," He gripes, rolling his eyes as I stick my tongue out at him, even in spite of how I know we are both well past the age where such a thing is remotely necessary, "Thought your mama taught you manners."

"I could say the same for you."

"You deserved it."

"He's right, ye know," Chibs adds, placing me on my feet once again, and glancing back toward the garage as we both come to the realization that our interaction is now being watched, "Ye asked for it."

"Of course you'd side with him," I complain, feigning a pout even as I allow the Scotsman to pull me against his side and steer me towards the two men exiting the garage and moving towards us, "You always did."

"Always knew you were a wise man, Chibs."

"Thanks Jackie boy."

Jax doesn't say anything in response to my exasperated huff, not that the lack of reply surprises me. But before I am able to spend any amount of time considering exactly what to do in retaliation over that fact, I find I am thwarted, this time by the entirely predictable greeting from the taller of the two men that now stand directly in front of me.

"Damn if you don't get better with age."

"And yet some things still say the same."

"C'mon, we both know you wouldn't have me any other way," Tig persists, sharing a glance with the shorter man standing beside him, and rolling his eyes as the man's reply obviously does not meet expectations.

"She won't 'have' you at all, brother, or did you forget what happened the last time you tried to push up on her?"

"She was seventeen, Bobby—"

"And we can all hope she's only gotten wiser with age."

"You guys really haven't changed, have you?" I tease, squirming out from beneath the hold that Chibs has on my shoulder, and allowing Bobby to draw me into his own embrace, instead while he replies.

"Why mess with perfection?"

"Right. You keep on calling it that."

"You plan on stayin' long, darlin'?" Bobby inquires, still keeping an arm looped around my shoulder, and leaning in to place a scratchy kiss against my cheek while I reply.

"Honestly, Bobby? I don't have a clue."

"Yeah well we can give ya reason enough to stick around."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," Tig confirms, leaning against the side wall of the garage with the familiar sort of easy confidence that has me grinning even in spite of the uncertainty Bobby's question has provoked, "Yeah, I think we can."

"Well you're gonna have to give me more than just that vague declaration if you want to make it work," I retort, situating myself a bit more comfortably against Bobby's side, and quirking a brow as I realize that Tig has obviously taken my remark as a challenge—

Typical.

"I can give you whatever you want, doll."

"And that's my queue to find Gemma," I state, easing out from beneath Bobby's arm, and swatting at Jax's abdomen in response to his laugh as I pass him by, "Catch you guys later?"

"If you're comin' to the party tonight," Chibs replies, catching me with an arm looped around my shoulders so that he can place a kiss against my temple before allowing me to continue moving towards the office, "Gonna be a big one."

"I'll be there, Chibby."

My reply seems to satisfy them, since I find that I am able to walk towards the main office without any further interruption, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip as I do what I can to push all of my apprehension over my return to Charming from my mind before Gemma sees me in the flesh. I am pretty certain Jax already picked up on my reluctance to be too forthcoming regarding my plans for my stay, temporary, or not. And no matter how much I may consider Gemma Teller-Morrow to be a second mother, I know very well that if she catches any hesitation on my part, the inquisition will be never-ending…

Try though I might to feel comforted by the fact that such a reaction would only stem from concern, I am not entirely prepared to deal with it given my current state of mind.

Regardless of my own personal feelings, however, I find that I am momentarily distracted by the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from behind me, a faint smile toying with the edges of my lips as the all too predictable teasing that follows the stranger's remark provokes laughter, as well.

"Who the hell was that?"

"Nothin' for you to concern yourself over, boyo. You push up on that, yer like to make it yer last night on this green earth."

Leave it to the guys to resume their 'look but don't touch unless you're one of us' policy with the usual aplomb…

…

"So how you been, sweetheart?" Gemma inquires, offering me her lighter and a cigarette from the carton she has just extracted from her purse, "Haven't seen you in a while."

"I've been okay. Nothing much happens when you keep your head down, Gemma."

"Says the girl who ran off to Hollywood to become a singer."

"I'm not there yet, you know," I protest, pausing just long enough to take a drag off my cigarette, and exhaling in a bit of a huff as I realize Gemma has narrowed her eyes at me as though she has doubts over the legitimacy of my claim.

Go figure.

"That lack of confidence have anything to do with you coming back?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, does your inability to see how good you are have anything to do with why you ran back to Charming instead of staying where you were 'til you make it big?" Gemma persists, leaning both elbows on the surface of the desk that separates us, and knocking some of the ash off the tip of her cigarette while awaiting my reply.

"No. No, that has nothing to do with it at all."

"You sure about that, sweetheart?"

"Absolutely."

"You plan on staying long?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I didn't know?" I inquire, fiddling with the cigarette clutched between my fingers, and exhaling a puff of smoke before risking a look at Gemma directly. I would have been blind to miss how she is observing me carefully, as though waiting for some flashing neon sign to light up over my head to indicate I am lying to her. But in spite of that, and the small twist of nerves that the realization provokes in my stomach, I somehow find myself capable of sending her what I hope is a reassuring smile, before reaching across the desk with my free hand to grab her own.

"If I'm going anywhere, Gemma, you'll be the first to know."

"I damn well better be," She retorts, managing a faint half-smile for my benefit, before leaning back in the chair she occupies, and lifting a brow in obvious curiosity, "Your mom know you're back?"

"Not yet."

"Well shit. She finds out I saw you first—"

"She won't. I'll—I'll call her as soon as I leave here."

"And where are you gonna go when you do leave?"

"Jax seemed to think I could stay with you and Clay," I reply, a sheepish grin gracing my lips as I watch Gemma nod her approval almost immediately, even in spite of the fact that she and I both know my mom would let me stay with her in a heartbeat, "But of course if that's not the case—"

"Don't even finish that sentence, sweetheart. It'd be a waste of breath."

"I could always just stay with my mom—"

"You still don't listen," Gemma teases, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray that rests on the side of the desk near the computer, and standing once again as the office door opens, and Jax greets us both with a smile, "Glad to see at least that hasn't changed."

"Satisfied she's still the same Peyton that we know and love?" Jax asks, ignoring my obvious roll of the eyes in favor of reaching around me to snag my half-smoked cigarette from my fingers to take a drag himself.

"For the most part. You good with taking her by the house? I'd do it myself, but I've got a bit of paperwork to finish up."

"Definitely. Just so long as she pays for my dinner."

"Pay for your dinner?" I repeat, lifting a brow in obvious incredulity, and standing so that I can snatch my cigarette back before going on, "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because if I'm taking you back to the house, that means I'm also bringing you to the party later on," Jax supplies, the apparent confidence lacing his tone prompting me to scoff, though I also find I cannot resist the urge to smile, as well, "And I'm not waiting around for the eventual shit-storm of you trying to find out what to wear for three hours with an empty stomach."

"I do not take three hours to figure out what to wear."

"Keep tellin' yourself that, sweetheart."

Laughing at Jax's doubtful remark, and at how Gemma shakes her head in resigned amusement before effectively shooing us both out of the office, I find that I am once again following him towards his bike, only pausing for long enough to take one last drag from my cigarette before I am stubbing it out against the pavement and tossing it in one of the empty oil barrels that will likely be used to contain fires later tonight. For the moment, it would seem as though my apprehension has lifted in favor of granting me the reprieve of enjoying a simple night with family. And Lord knows, no matter how reluctant I may be to risk dragging them into my affairs by the simple reality of my presence, here, I cannot entirely ignore the sense of relief that I feel at the prospect of finally being back among people who know me better than I know myself.

If that makes me one of those stereotypical females that can't seem to settle on one emotion at a time, then so be it.

…


	3. Back In The Life

"Glad to know you didn't wait to see if I was going to finish that," I quip, fiddling with a loose strand of strawberry-blonde hair that seemed all but determined to continue falling away from the sloppy updo I had coerced my hair into, and walking into the kitchen, only to find that Jax has taken the liberty of polishing off the last of the chicken tenders that remained on my plate.

"Aren't you supposed to be watching your girlish figure, or something?"

"Bite me."

"Don't make an offer you can't follow through on, Pey. It's bad for business," Jax retorts, reaching out to latch onto my hand as I attempt to swat at his shoulder, "You're really going to wear that?"

"You have something against my outfit, Teller?"

"What I have is something against you walking into that club practically begging every man within ten feet to push up on you."

"So what, a girl can't have a little fun?" I question, glancing down at the tank top and skinny jeans I chose for the evening, before returning my attention to Jax, and quirking a brow in open skepticism of his apparent concern, "It's just a shirt and jeans, 'Mom'—"

"Yeah, and both are squeezing your ass and tits out for the whole world to see."

"Why the hell are you looking?"

"Kind of hard not to, Pey," Jax replies, wiping some of the leftover grease from the chicken finger he had just nabbed from my plate on his jeans, and leaning back in the chair he occupies at the table before going on, "Besides, I thought you had a guy back in Hollywood."

"Past tense, Teller. That's the key. Past tense."

"You angling for a one night stand, then? Get this asshole out of your system for good?"

"Why do you care whether I am or not?"

"Because you and I both know you're not a croweater. That's why."

"Well thank you for that stunning observation, Jax. But that's not what I'm after," I assure, doing what I can to temper the unintentional harshness inherent in my reply with a light squeeze of his hand before I pull mine out of his grasp, "I just want to have a good time, tonight, and forget about all the other bullshit. That okay with you?"

"Only assuming you'll eventually let me in on this other bullshit."

"Eventually. But not tonight. I just—I just want to be normal, for once."

"You might be hangin' around the wrong crowd for that, Pey."

"Whether I am or not, are you ever going to shut up and take me to this thing? Or am I going to have to hitchhike?" I tease, grinning just a bit as Jax gives me an answering smile, before hauling himself off of the chair, and grabbing the pack of cigarettes he had placed upon the table to stow inside his jeans pocket. I can tell, just by looking at his expression, that he is not about to let this go. That as soon as he gets me alone again, I'll likely be enduring any number of questions that I would rather avoid. But despite the very real apprehension I feel over facing that inquisition, I cannot help but find myself grateful for the thought behind it, my body relaxing for the first time in what felt like months as I move to follow Jax as he heads towards the back door of Gemma and Clay's home, my heels clicking on the linoleum as I move.

No matter how well I know that Jax Teller can be persistent as hell, when he wants to be, I still find myself clinging to the rather foolish hope that I can somehow find a way to keep his curiosity diverted until I am ready to come clean about my return on my own.

The reality of how he will react when he learns the truth honestly terrifies me, and is not something I am entirely capable of facing until I get my feet back under me on solid ground once again…

…

Music blares from speakers set up around the clubhouse at random intervals when Jax and I arrive, the combination of the buzz of the bass and the roar of Jax's bike already setting my blood to racing as he pulls to a stop beside some of the other bikes already parked on the edge of the lot. Glancing around, I can see that almost nothing has changed in terms of party décor, the oil drums with fires blazing inside circling the perimeter and providing just enough light to see the occasional flash of someone's face, or the drink they held in their hand. From the level of noise and carrying on, it seemed they were a bit later than the majority of the crowd that had obtained an invitation—and although I am still a bit apprehensive about the success of my attendance and its ability to shield me from a deeper consideration of everything that has brought me to this moment, I cannot help but grin as Jax takes the helmet he had insisted I wear on the ride over and stows it on the handlebars of his bike, before he is looping an arm around my shoulders and guiding me towards the gathering at hand.

"You ready for this?" He inquires, apparently picking up on my hesitation, and tightening his hold on my shoulders just a bit in a gesture of what I can only interpret as support, "We can always call it a night. Watch a movie or something—just not a chick flick—"

"I'm fine, Jax," I assure, leaning into his embrace for a moment, and savoring the warmth of the gesture before I am playfully pushing him away, and sending him a wink before going on, "Now stop hanging all over me. You're killing your game."

"My game?"

"Yeah. Your game. Or are you really trying to tell me you're not going to try and get laid tonight?"

"I never said anything about—"

"You didn't have to. Your past history did all that for me."

"Ever heard anyone say you can't judge a book by its cover?" Jax asks, coming to a stop just at the perimeter of the gathering, and jamming both hands in his pants pockets before regarding me with a feigned innocent expression that almost has me laughing out loud.

"Sure. Just not you."

"Is that what your visit is going to be, Pey? You insulting me all the time?"

"Isn't that what our time together always is?"

"You might want to watch out. I could just send you back to your fancy ass big city on the next bus out of town."

"And what would your mother say to that?" I retort, folding my arms across my chest, and grinning when my inquiry prompts a roll of the eyes, and a shove on the shoulder from Jax despite his apparent amusement over the situation that matches my own, "Somehow I don't think she'd be pleased."

"I can handle my mom."

"Said no man ever."

"Yeah. No man except me," Jax persists, showing me a self-assured grin, before he is looping his arm around my shoulder to pull me against his side once again, "I know how to handle a woman. Even one in heels."

"Good to know," I reply, catching sight of Tig and Happy sparring in the ring situated not far from the clubhouse door, and managing a wave when I realize Chibs and Bobby are standing beside the ring, the latter waving me over as soon as he sees me, "Looks like I've got my marching orders. You going to behave yourself, or do I need to tether you to my side?"

"I could ask the same of you, you know."

"Yeah, but the difference is I actually know how to behave."

"My ass you know how to behave," Jax retorts, shoving me away from him, and laughing as I almost immediately move to retaliate in kind, "Catch up with you later, then?"

"Yeah. Later."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do—"

"Well that leaves a lot of options open."

"I thought so."

"Just go do your thing, won't you?" I grouse, sending Jax a wink, and pushing him towards a group of croweaters that have gathered by a cooler practically overflowing with unopened bottles of beer, "I'll be fine with Bobby and Chibs."

"You sure?"

"Positive. Like you said, we'll meet up later."

Aware of Jax's nod of response as he moves away from me, and towards the women that are even now ogling him as though they have never seen him before in their lives, I take the liberty of moving towards the boxing ring, a half-smile forming on my lips as I willingly walk into Chibs' outstretched arms. For a moment, I find that I am content to simply remain in his embrace, the warmth of the gesture proving far more comforting than I would truly like to admit. But before that realization can make itself known through either my continued immobility, or my facial expression, I am pulling back and donning a smile as I glance up at Chibs' expectant features, one brow lifting as I disentangle myself from his arms and find that another familiar voice is now reaching my ears.

"You don't call—you don't write—and now you're hugging on other old men? I gotta say, kid, that hurts."

"Hey Uncle Clay—"

Looks like SAMCRO's President knew I was back now, too…

I could only hope that the evasive action I had taken with Gemma earlier, despite how I somehow knew she had seen it for what it was, would prove to be just as effective on her husband.

…..

"He ah—was he giving you a hard time?"

"What? Oh—no. No, not at all," I state, my pulse jumping as I realize I must have drifted off into my own thoughts in spite of all my efforts to avoid that precise outcome, and that my inattention has been noticed by the man now standing at my side. He is a few inches taller than I am, even in my heels, the familiar leather kutte hanging over his torso prompting at least some measure of relief in spite of the fact that the man is a practical stranger. Growing up SAMCRO, as my mom liked to put it so many times, has made it so that I hardly bat an eye over tattoos or the loud roar of a motorcycle, no matter whether better instinct might indicate that doing so would be wise. And although I still feel as though I am out of my element here, both in Charming as a whole, and back at the heart of the club that I had carefully avoided for what felt like ages, I find that something in the genuine nature of this particular stranger's smile is reassuring, my own lips turning up faintly at the corners before I speak once again.

"Sorry. He's just—family."

"You—you're related to Gemma and Clay?" The man stammers, looking thrown, for a moment, as though the act of standing here and talking to me is suddenly far more significant than he might have believed, "Shit. I—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that about—"

"About what?"

"Clay. Giving you a hard time. He's your—what, your dad?"

"God, no!" I exclaim, laughing so easily at the thought of there being any truth in the stranger's remark, and lifting a hand to cover my mouth in a last-ditch effort to make the act seem less rude, "He's more like an adopted uncle."

"Still, I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

"Well trust me, it's not a problem."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. And to answer your question, yeah. He kind of was," I admit, glancing down at the beer that has remained, until now, very much forgotten in my hand, and pausing for just long enough to take a sip before noting my companion's perplexed expression, and deciding to explain further, "Let's call it a mini-guilt-trip about not coming for a visit sooner."

"Ouch. Doesn't sound like fun."

"It wasn't."

"What kept you away?" The stranger inquires, sliding both hands inside his pants pockets, and risking a small step towards me so that I can see him better in the light of the oil drum just a few inches away. As the flames flicker in the light breeze that rustles at a few loose strands of my hair, I can see that he appears to be sporting a close-cropped mohawk with tribal tattoos on either side—and, suppressing a smile at the individuality implied by such a feature, I choose instead to manage a brief shrug, before stepping closer to the oil drum, myself, to make my reply.

"A bunch of things, really. You'd be here all night if you got the whole list."

"Maybe I'm gonna be here all night, anyway, and your answer would just make it more interesting."

"Really—"

"Really," My companion confirms, grinning just a bit, such that I see a flash of white teeth in the light of the fire, before it disappears, and he is averting his gaze to fish through a pocket on his kutte, instead, "Smoke?"

"Sure."

Taking the proffered cigarette, and pinching it between my forefinger and thumb until my companion can succeed in finding his lighter in the self-same pocket, the little flame at the top flickering in another gust of wind before he reaches forward to offer it to me, first. My eyes slip closed almost automatically as I take a drag, and exhale in one fluid motion, the smoke puffing out in the air before me, and drifting away just as quickly, though the sensation of the beginnings of relaxation seems content to stay put. And although I know full-well that allowing myself to do such a thing in front of a practical stranger, I find that I have no qualms over keeping my eyes closed for just a moment longer, my posture relaxing for a bit until I find I am once again jolted back to awareness by the sound of my companion's voice closer than I expected him to be.

"So—you gonna tell me why you came back?"

"Jesus," I exhale, shaking my head, and biting my lip for a moment when I realize the stranger's brow has furrowed in an all too likely act of concern over my obvious skittishness regarding his sudden close proximity, "You don't give up, do you?"

"I'm a persistent guy."

"And you think you can buy my secrets with a cigarette and a bonfire?"

"That's the—the hope."

"What would you say if I told you I expected something in return for divulging what I know?"

"I'd say I think I'd be able to handle the price."

"Then clearly, you don't know her very well, man."

Jax…

"Trying to change that," My companion murmurs, his apparent disappointment over Jax's untimely arrival causing me to bite down on my lower lip to avoid breaking into a smile, before I risk a glance towards Jax, himself, and note that his expression is skeptical, at best, and mildly territorial, at worst. Almost immediately, my pulse jumps, the discovery that Jax has clearly mistaken the other man's intentions prompting me to take a step closer towards him, a slight shake of the head hopefully serving as enough indication that he has no reason to step in.

Of course, knowing Jax, as I do, I should know by now that just that simple act is not going to come close to being enough…

"Beat it, Juice," He orders, inclining his head towards the larger gathering situated around one of the oil drums closer to the clubhouse doors, and watching as the man—Juice—spares only a moment to hang his head in obvious disappointment, before jogging in the direction that Jax has just indicated, before returning his attention to me, and lifting a brow as he realizes my arms are once again crossed over my chest while my cigarette remains clutched between the fingers of my right hand, "What?"

"What the hell was that, Teller? We were just talking about random bullshit, not doing the horizontal mambo."

"There's an image I'm never getting out of my head," Jax retorts, wincing a bit as though the idea is truly that painful on the eyes, and surprising me with the sudden extension of a bottle of beer that I hadn't even known he had, "And for the record, I could be askin' you the same thing."

"Asking me the same thing. You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm not kidding, Peyton. Not this time."

"Really?" I scoff, shaking my head in open disbelief over Jax's obvious attempt at meddling in this most recent occurrence, and frowning a bit as the realization hits that he does not appear even the slightest bit remorseful over his untimely interruption, "This from the man that seems to look at life like it's one big joke every other day of the week—"

"It's coming from a man who doesn't want to see his little sister making a decision she's going to regret by the morning."

"Jax, I'm not your little sis—"

"You may as well be!" Jax interrupts, startling me into a temporary silence with the vehemence in his words, though what he says next rather efficiently gets me speaking again, "And you don't need to sleep with a guy who's barely got his patch to forget an ex."

"Wow. What a stunningly off the wall interpretation of what I was doing."

"You gonna tell me I'm wrong?"

"Hell yes I am," I state, taking a conciliatory sip of the beer he has handed me, and wincing as the liquid burns just a bit on the way down my throat, before going on, "Last I checked, I didn't need your permission before I decided to talk to a guy."

"He wanted to do more than just talk, and you know it."

"Why exactly do you care, Jax?"

"You really have to ask?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

"Because you're my best friend, Pey. One of the only two I've got," Jax admits, glancing at the fire still flickering in the oil drum before us, his expression unreadable, though I seem to know on instinct that his thoughts have wandered, at least for this particular split second, to Opie, and his recent stint in prison, before his eyes rest upon my own features once again, "And even though you may think I'm too stupid to pick up on the fact that you're hiding something, I'm not."

"I never said you were stupid—"

"It's implied."

"And here I thought you didn't have words like that in your arsenal."

"Christ, Peyton, I'm being serious, here."

"I know," I acknowledge, my brow furrowing a bit as I, too, glance towards the oil drum, and allow my gaze to become absorbed in the subtle movements of the flames therein, "And I will tell you. I will, Jax, but when I'm ready to. Not before."

"How long does that take?"

"Would an 'I don't know yet' suffice to answer that question?"

"Maybe," Jax replies, his tone indicating he is withholding full trust in my answer, although he manages to shoot me a half-smile as if to say otherwise, "As long as you promise me one thing in return."

"What's that?"

"When you do come clean, you're not gonna hold me back from handing this guy's ass to him on a silver platter if I find out he hurt you."

"Do you even own a silver platter, Teller?" I ask, laughing openly as Jax rolls his eyes in response to my remark, and dodging out of the way as his hand darts out to swat at my side, "What? It's a valid question."

"No, Pey, it's really not."

"Well whether it is, or isn't, yes. I won't stop you from going to town with your fictitious silver platter," I quip, emitting a soft laugh as I take note of Jax's apparent expression of self-satisfaction, in spite of how a sliver of apprehension has wiggled its way into the back of my mind at the thought of being completely forthcoming about what it is that he so clearly wants to know. Telling the truth—all of it, at least—is a sure fire way to make what was already a bad situation even worse, not to mention the heat it could bring back on Jax if Tim decided to take things public.

No matter how scared I may be at the prospect of keeping all of this to myself, I simply cannot involve Jax in something that I should have had the forethought to end on my own.

Regardless of my own misgivings, however, I do what I can to force my expression to remain neutral, at least for the time being, my eyes meeting Jax's for just a moment before I am downing the rest of my beer, and placing the empty bottle on the ground beside the oil drum.

"If it's alright with you, I think I'm gonna go find that guy from earlier and apologize for your being an overprotective ass," I begin, grinning openly as Jax scoffs in obvious disbelief over the necessity of such a thing, and then turning on a heel to do exactly as I told him I would.

"And if you want to avoid your apparently 'barely-patched' brother learning some of the more embarrassing things I lured you into doing in high school, you won't interrupt us again."

For now, at least, I was going to do my best to focus on the present, and if that ended up biting me in the ass later on, I would simply deal with it as it came.

…


	4. Reluctant History

(Hollywood, CA 2007)

I can barely breathe, the pain that ignites in my side every time I attempt to inhale very nearly crippling, though I do my best to tamp down on the whimper that wants so very badly to escape from between my parted lips. In mere seconds, one innocent remark has earned me a spot curled on the hardwood floor of the apartment, one arm curling around my torso on instinct while I struggle to catch a breath, and tears burn at the corners of my eyes. And although I know that I might be better served by simply remaining motionless as the shadowy figure looms over my prone frame, some small remnant of my already beaten down pride has me struggling to push myself upright, my eyes remaining fixed upon the floor until the sharp impact of the toe of Tim's boot connects with my stomach, and sends me crashing back down once more.

"You think you're pretty hot shit, don't you?" He growls, the pressure of his hand coming to rest upon my shoulder as he crouches down until I can feel his hot breath gusting against the skin of my neck, "You get one schmuck ready to be your agent, and you don't need me anymore—"

"That's not what I—what I said, Tim—"

"Sure as hell seems like it is."

"Well it—it's not," I persist, wincing as even the simple act of carrying on a conversation causes spasms to wrack their way through my chest, "I don't—I don't think that."

"Then prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it," Tim repeats, his hand sliding away from my shoulder so that he can reach for my wrist, and use that hold to tug me half-upright before going on, "Prove to me that you're not the lying slut I think you are."

Wincing again as I feel the hold his fingers have around my wrist tightening until I cannot even flex my fingers without experiencing pain, I scramble to come up with some means of providing Tim with the assurance he so desperately needs, my breath now coming in shallow gasps as I force my free hand to rest palm-flat upon the floor to steady myself while Tim still retains his vice like grip upon my other wrist. In spite of my desire to attempt regaining some control over this situation, I find that I am completely incapable of even looking him in the eye, at least for the moment, my gaze remaining rooted to the floor, regardless of how loudly instinct seems to scream at me that I do something—anything—to stop this entire ordeal in its tracks.

For his part, Tim seems to take my wordlessness as sufficient proof, at least for the time being, the sudden loss of his fingers constricting around my wrist causing me to falter as my newly freed hand joins its fellow, pressed flat against the hardwood floor. In seconds, the almost suffocating nature of his presence hovering over me disappears, while the hollow sounds of footsteps retreat away from me, and head towards the kitchen instead. And although I hate myself for succumbing to the relief that floods through my trembling frame, I am entirely incapable of resisting the flood of tears that follow Tim's departure, a low whimper passing through my lips as I finally abandon all hope of remaining upright, and sag back down to the floor instead. Unbidden, my thoughts turn for the briefest of moments to my parents—to my family, back in Charming, and to how they would likely react if they had any inkling as to what my life was like, now. But before I can become too distracted by such a thought, and the inherent shame that brings a flush to my cheeks in response, I force myself to focus on the simple task of attempting to sit upright once more, knowing that the longer I remain in one place, the harder I will find it to move later on.

From what little I can glean from the spasms of pain that tear through my torso with each breath, I can only surmise that Tim's harsh blows might just have broken a rib…

…

(Charming, CA 2008)

"Hey—you still want to try for getting secrets out of me?" I inquire, suppressing a grin as the guy I had been talking to before Jax's untimely interruption turns from his observation of the sparring going on in the ring, and faces me with an utterly stunned expression on his face, "I can walk away if that's too much for you to handle—"

"I—ah—no. No, it's not."

"You sure about that?"

"Hell yes," Juice replies, a startlingly wide grin transforming his features from apprehension, to something that seems far more welcoming than I think I truly deserve, "You sure Jax won't mind, though?"

"Honestly? He can mind all he wants. But he won't bother us again."

"Really?"

"Really. I took care of it," I assure, moving to stand beside my companion, while simultaneously allowing my shoulder to bump against his despite the fact that a part of me can hardly believe I am being so forward, "Can I let you in on a little known secret?"

"Sure."

"He's scared of me."

"No way," Juice protests, amusement coloring his features as he shakes his head in response to my assertion, one hand lifting to rub against his scalp while he regards me with something not all that far from genuine surprise, "Jax?"

"We grew up together. Let's just say between him, and Opie, I learned how to handle myself really quickly."

"You—you knew Opie too?"

"That tends to happen when the club is your life," I inform, a slight furrow forming on my brow as I realize at the last possible second that I do not quite feel ready to disclose the exact reason behind my involvement with SAMCRO, no matter how certain I am that the truth will come out, eventually, "Those two taught me everything I know."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. And if you ever tell either one of them that I said that, I'll have to kill you."

"Fair enough," Juice acknowledges, a laugh escaping as he snags two beers from a cooler that I had only just noticed resting in front of the ring, and hands one my way after popping off the cap, "Does a beer go farther in buying more secrets than a cigarette?"

"As long as you promise you'll keep them coming," I quip, surprisingly at ease for the moment, despite how a part of me wonders exactly what I will be able to tell this man without risking the prospect of straying too close to the truth. In truth, I am well aware that my reluctance makes no sense. That I can trust this man about as much as I can any other member of this club when it comes to withholding judgment, and standing behind someone when it really counts. I know that he would never have been patched in, otherwise. But still, some part of me seems utterly rooted in the desire to keep as much about my past, both with SAMCRO and otherwise, in the dark, at least for now, the small sip of beer I manage in the time it takes to come to this conclusion only solidifying my resolve as I manage a faint smile for Juice's benefit, before quirking a brow and responding in the only way I know how.

"How does a beer for each question and answer sound?"

If nothing else, I can at least assure myself that I am capable of dragging the affair out for just long enough to garner the requisite time to concoct answers that are not all lies…

…

"Saw you talkin' to Juice earlier. That gonna become a thing?" Gemma asks, sidling up beside me while I look over the food table, and succumb to the urge to pluck one last chicken wing from the platter before I turn to face her head-on.

"If by 'thing' you mean friendship, then yeah. I guess it is—"

"You and I both know that's not what I mean, Peyton. You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Exactly what is it you think I'm doing?" I demand, my expression turning from one of cautious neutrality, to one more akin to open curiosity while I wait upon Gemma's reply. In truth, I really ought to have expected this inquisition, such as it is, particularly knowing that she has always been at least as protective of me as she is over Jax. But still, I cannot entirely seem to shake the small surge of aggravation that passes through me, regardless, my lips tugging into a frown for just a moment as I realize I am on the receiving end of one of Gemma's trademark appraising glances before she finally responds.

"Honestly? I think you're going out of your way to hide from something. And I hope you're eventually going to be smart enough to realize you need to tell me what that is."

"I'm not hiding from—"

"Save it, sweetheart. Your mama may not be able to tell when you're lying, but I sure as hell can."

"How?"

"How?" Gemma scoffs, watching me without wavering as I force myself to take a nibble of one of the chicken wings on my plate, and folding her arms across her chest with one corner of her lips turned up in an amused grin, "Because I've known you since you were in diapers, that's how."

"Technically, my mom has that particular claim under her belt, as well, Aunt Gemma."

"Yeah, but in my case, it goes a bit deeper than that. I think you know what I mean, sweetheart."

Unable to feign ignorance beneath the weight of the inscrutable stare that Gemma is giving me, I settle instead for managing a simple nod, whatever words I may have said sticking in my throat, and forcing me to swallow in an attempt to dislodge the invisible barrier that they seem to have prevented before Gemma can come to the wrong conclusion. I know that she will eventually succeed in her attempts at getting me to come clean. I know that as easily as I know my own name. And yet I find that I am all but determined to see to it that she does not achieve that goal just yet, my posture straightening just a bit as I attempt to match her stare with one of my own before I finally summon the wherewithal to reply.

"If you were to hazard a guess, what would you say I'm running from?"

"We playing a game?"

"From where I'm sitting, Aunt Gemma, you started this one all on your own."

"Maybe I did," My aunt admits, shaking her head in what I can only hope is resignation, while she moves just a bit closer towards me, and loops an arm around my shoulders to guide me towards one of the nearby picnic tables that are situated outside of the clubhouse, itself, "But we both know my thoughts aren't what will get you through whatever this is, baby girl."

"I know."

"Then you won't be offended if I decide not to give your little question the time of day?"

"I guess not."

"Good. I'd hate to think your time in the big city took away that thick skin you used to have."

"Trust me. It's still there. Thick as ever," I promise, forcing a faint smile to my lips as I take the proffered seat at the picnic table, and Gemma moves to take the seat opposite me in next to no time at all, "Dare I ask how things have been around here?"

"How much time have you got?" Gemma retorts, reaching over to pluck at a piece of the muffin I had placed upon my plate, and popping the morsel into her mouth to chew and swallow before going on, "Same as ever—just with the added twist of a knocked-up junkie to keep things interesting."

"Knocked up junkie? Who's the genius that thought that was a good idea?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Who didn't—who didn't tell me what?" I stammer, dropping the piece of the muffin I had torn off for myself back onto the plate while my eyes blow wide in response to Gemma's quirked brow, "No. No, tell me it's not—"

"Jax? Yeah. He and Wendy got hitched, fell out, tried to reconcile, and then next thing I know there's a bun in her oven."

"Shit."

"That is exactly what I said," Gemma states, reaching into her jacket pocket for her lighter and cigarettes, and managing to extract and light one in what seems to be just a manner of seconds, before taking a drag, and exhaling a puff of smoke in one fluid motion, "He really didn't tell you?"

"No. He neglected to mention a damn thing about Wendy or any of it," I reply, one hand lifting to tug through tousled hair while the other comes to rest, palm flat, upon the grained wood of the picnic table in the same motion, "Jesus, Aunt Gemma—"

"I wouldn't sweat it, sweetheart. You know Jax isn't one for heart-to-hearts."

"I know that, but this? You'd think he'd have the stones to tell one of his best friends that he was going to be a dad, for Christ's sake."

"Maybe he just didn't know what to say."

"Right. And I'm the Pope," I retort, aware that my words have come out far too harshly, considering Gemma is hardly the reason behind Jax's apparent secrecy, and yet finding myself completely incapable of rectifying the situation in the wake of the obvious sting that his lack of confession leaves me with, whether he willed it to be that way, or not, "This is kind of huge, Gemma."

"I know that, sweetheart."

"Then why the hell wouldn't he tell me?"

"Maybe he was waiting on you to start being a little more forthcoming, yourself."

Sighing as I realize, albeit reluctantly, that Gemma probably does have a point, there, I find that it is not long before I am shoving my plate of hardly touched food to the side so that I can lean forward with both elbows on the table, and my head held firmly between both hands. This most recent revelation, coupled with my lingering apprehension over how best to eventually explain my sudden return to Charming in the first place has rather effectively stolen my appetite, the pit of anxiety that is roaring to life in my stomach making it all but impossible to even look at the food I had snagged without nausea following not long thereafter. And perhaps because of my current distraction, I find that I am jumping while my pulse skyrockets in response to the slight touch of Gemma's hand coming to rest upon my forearm, while Jax's voice simultaneously reaches my ears from his newfound position plopped beside me on the picnic bench.

"Hey—you good? Or is all that beer finally getting to you?" He jokes, the gravelly laugh that leaves him almost immediately after his remark prompting me to drop my hands away from my temples, my eyes narrowing as I force myself to look him in the eye.

"No. I'm not 'good', Jax. When the hell were you going to tell me about Wendy and the baby?"

If the look that crosses his features in this moment are any indication, he appears just as stunned by my sudden question as I was hearing of the news from his mother just moments before…

Whether it is truly mature of me or not, I am at least able to take some small amount of satisfaction from that expression, in spite of the fact that I am still more than just a little hurt that he was not the one to tell me, to begin with.

…

(Hollywood, CA 2008)

Frozen in place in the wrought iron chair on the patio of the small coffee shop, I stare, open-mouthed, at the woman seated across from me, even in the face of her utterly nonplussed expression that she is giving me in return. I cannot have heard her correctly—the prospect of what she suggests I do to rectify my current situation at home seeming completely preposterous, regardless of whether or not a small part of me had honestly started to yearn for the idea almost as soon as the words had left her mouth. But her steady gaze, coupled with the not so subtle weight of the package she has just handed me seem to indicate that I did not, in fact, mishear, my heart thumping erratically in my chest as I quickly stow the package inside my oversized purse, and wet my lips before summoning the ability to speak once again.

"Are you insane, Kelly? This—there's no way in hell what you just gave me is legal."

"Keep your voice down, would you? I'm aware!"

"Then why the hell would you give it to me?" I persist, my voice dropping to a terse whisper while I lean across the table after casting a glance at our surroundings to ensure no one was close enough to overhear, "Unless, of course, you're trying to get me thrown in jail."

"I'm trying to save your life, Peyton. The least you could do is show me some damned gratitude," Kelly returns, her rouged lips pursing into a frown as she folds her arms across her chest, and leans back against the ironwork of the chair to regard me with what I can only describe as abject disappointment apparent in every facet of her gaze, "The guy's done enough damage to you to last a lifetime."

"And he's also done me a hell of a lot of good."

"Oh really? Give me one example of that, that hasn't cost you a hell of a lot of pain at the same time."

"Kelly—"

"I mean it, Pey. Give me one example. Just one, and I'll lay off and pretend this whole conversation never even happened."

My brow furrowing as I scramble to give her the answer she wants, I find to my own disappointment that I cannot seem to come up with a single example of how Tim has helped me without a subsequent memory of how he has caused me pain, as well. It's telling, of course, though I'll be damned if I am willing to admit to such a thing out loud. And so, I opt for doing the only other thing I can think of, in this moment, my fingers straying to the slight bulge that my new package has made against the fabric of my purse for a moment before I reply.

"He's had a hand in every single audition and gig I've ever had."

"Bully for him. As I recall, you're the one that rocked every single gig that he found for you. That was you, and your talent, Peyton. Not him."

"But he helped."

"Jesus, Pey, do you even realize how damned delusional you sound right now?" Kelly demanded, a worried frown passing over her features as she takes note of my wince in response to the hardness of her words, though she does not do anything in particular to temper them, regardless, "You're stronger than this. All I'm trying to do is get you to start acting like you know that as well as I do."

"And what do we do if it all blows up in my face?" I argue, placing my purse upon the ground between my feet, and exhaling in an attempt at relieving some of the tension that seems rooted to my shoulders no matter what I do to get rid of it, "He could just as easily turn it all around on me, and convince anyone who'll listen that I'm unhinged."

"It won't come to that."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Because you're not the first woman that's had to take drastic measures to get away from a relationship. And you probably won't be the last. You need to trust me, Peyton. I wouldn't give you anything you can't handle."

Unable to do anything other than nod in recognition of Kelly's words, I settle instead upon the task of downing the rest of my coffee in one gulp, the hand that is not holding the Styrofoam cup clenching into a fist in an attempt at masking the tremble that seems so inherent that I hardly even notice its existence. If asked, I honestly doubt I could come up with a suitable explanation for my relative nonchalance over something that is so indicative of trauma that it isn't even funny, especially since I would be the first in line to persuade any of my friends to get the hell out of dodge as soon as they could, if the situation were reversed.

Somehow, though, when faced with the situation as my own personal problem, the same logic does not seem to apply.

As if she can sense my growing anxiousness, Kelly abandons her pose of distant indignation in mere seconds in favor of leaning across the table that rests between us to reach for my hand, the gentle squeeze she gives by way of providing encouragement prompting me to look her in the eye, in spite of all of the indicators that scream at me to abandon this prospective 'project' before it can land me in even hotter water than I am in already. I can tell she is truly behind me, in this. That I have her in my corner, even if no one else will ever think of joining her there. And although I am still not entirely sure about my capability of pulling off what she seems to want me to do so intently, I find that I am also unable to ignore the slight sensation of strength that comes along with the feel of her hand squeezing my own, a sigh escaping as I glance down at the table top for just a moment, before gathering the confidence to speak.

"So—we have the first step of the plan."

"We do," Kelly confirms, pulling her hand away from my own, and sending me a smile that is almost predatory in nature, despite the fact that for the most part, I know that such a thing is about as out of character for her, as it is for me, as well.

"Now all you have to do is come up with the proper time to enact it."

Whether I care to admit it or not, her words have me almost convinced that what we are planning actually has a chance to succeed…

…


End file.
